All This and Heaven Too
by Literary Portals
Summary: "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us." An AU in which Fred survives, Charlie is crippled, and peace in the aftermath of a war is not so easily gained. Immediately follows the Second Wizarding War against Voldemort.
1. Reprieve in Chaos

_**IMPORTANT**: Charlie uses offensive language in regards to himself because he's full of self-hate. It does **not** reflect my views or language. Please don't be offended. It will be addressed._

* * *

The Dark Lord allowed them time to collect their dead and injured, and Jennavieve Bulstrode, Madame Pomfrey, Mediwizards from St. Mungo's, and anyone proficient in healing spells, prepared for an influx. Arrive the injured did, carried or hovering or limping, some crying, some silent, many afraid and grim.

Jenna could hear the whispers already. "Where is the Chosen one?" was common amongst the pleas for the pain to stop, the sobbing, and the soothing murmurs. Soon enough, she was distracted by the first of the wounded to reach her, and after the first one, more.

Two are too far gone to save; one a student whose father breaks down into horrible, heaving sobs at her pronouncement and the other some type of Ministry personnel, his face destroyed beyond all recognition. He passed away alone, gurgling on his blood, and someone coverd him with a sheet. She moved on. She had to.

A bloke who was missing an ear—an old injury from the looks of it—brings the next wizard in limping and nearly insensible with pain.

"Lay him down gently," she told him, eyes quickly assessing the damage.

The wizard's scream was strangled as he was lowered, despite how careful the other man was being. His leg had been hacked at by several cutting spells; he'd left a trail of blood in his wake.

"What're your names?" Jenna asked, as she examined the tightness of the tourniquet someone wrapped around his leg above the worst of the damage. _Talk_, the voice of her supervisor echoed in her mind, _keeps the patient focused on you and keeps you from falling to bits because of your nerves or the gore._ _Keeps you from overthinking and ignoring your gut._

"Charlie," her patient hissed.

"George," the one-eared one answered.

"Alright, George," she said, "I need you to hold him down, because this is going to hurt." Turning to Charlie, she asked, "Would you like something to bite into?"

He nodded jerkily, and she conjured a cylinder of wood. Charlie bit into it savagely, and with a glance at George, who was holding Charlie down by the shoulders, she set to work.

Her first act was to knit his arteries together, a delicate, time-consuming process. When she began, Charlie jerked and yelled hoarsely, and she needed to pause until George was holding down his leg too before she could get back to work. Ten minutes later, Charlie had mercifully passed out and was no longer in danger of bleeding out.

George looked white when she finally looked up from her crouched position, her back making cricking sound. "You can let go," she told him, "You did very well. I need you to go to Madame Pomfrey and fetch me a blood-replenishing potion, please."

He nods. "Y-yeah, yeah, okay."

She didn't watch him go; instead returning to her patient's leg. Its still looks horribly like minced meat, and she's about to close the deep, jagged cuts when she paused and she notices a suspicious iridescence to the bits of white bone she could see. True, it could have been the blood and slime associated with the interior of a body but it could also be…

_Rather safe than sorry, _Jenna thought, and cast the spell that she learned at home under the tutelage of her uncle, long before Healer's Academy.

"_Aperio,"_ she murmurs. It was much like the _revelio_ spell, only it was used to reveal jinxes and curses. Not widely known, and considered Dark for its ability to transfer any spell it revealed onto another person or object, as well as extremely difficult to employ, she had never before used it on a human.

A sickly mass of light the colour of rotten flesh rose like steam from Charlie's leg. Her stomach sunk; it was the _comburo_ curse.

"What the hell is that?"

Jenna jumped and dispelled the curse with a flick of her wand; the mist of spell sank back into Charlie's leg.

"A curse," she replied, taking the blood-replenishing potion from him.

"What's it do?" George asked, looking partly ill and partly curious.

"It will eat away at his leg and then spread to the rest of him," Jenna answered shortly, rapidly listing her options (depressingly few) and the consequences of each.

"Is there—is there a cure?"

Jenna hesitated, and the look on his face became one of devestation. He sank down beside her.

"I'll have to remove his leg; it hasn't spread yet." _I think, _she added silently.

"Do it," George said grimly, "If it means he'll live, there's no bloody point waiting around and talking about it."

Jenna didn't question him, it really was the best chance Charlie had. "Right," she said, "Conjure some curtains for me."

He did, they wrapped around the three of them with a soft swish against the flagstone floors. She raised her wand, hesitated at the peaky look on George's face, and said, "Now would be a good time to fetch family, if they're here. No use prolonging their worry if they're out and about looking for you and can't spot you."

George started. "I—but…"

"I'll work better if I don't have to worry about you puking," Jenna said bluntly.

A moment later, George stumbled to his feet and away, and Jenna immediately cast the severing spell. It sank slowly and precisely through the meaty flesh of Charlie's leg, just above his knee and only slowed when it reached his bones. The spell she'd used was a morbidly clever thing, working almost like a stasis charm by suspending blood flow at the point of separation.

It took a full minute for the leg to be detached; she immediately cast a preservation and containment spell over it. In the event someone tried to sue her for malpractice, she'd have proof of the necessity of it.

Jenna then focused on healing the stump. Another two minutes passed during which, as though from very far away, she could hear someone demanding to check on Charlie and others attempting to dissuade the woman. Finally, smooth pink skin covered the end of what remained of Charlie's left leg.

Jenna dispelled the curtains and was immediately surrounded by a number of grimy redheads. All, except the two that must have been the parents, stared horrified at the leg, which Jenna hastily covered with a square of cloth.

"Excuse me," Jenna said loudly, attempting to get the attention of the distraught mother, who ignored her, stroking Charlie's face and sobbing. The father, at least, glanced around.

Jenna held up the flask of potion wearily. "I'm not done," she said, "You can have your time with him after I've ensured that he'll make it through the hour, and there are others I need to see."

"This is my son!" the woman burst out indignantly, "I understand that you have to do your job but—"

Jenna cut her off by determinedly scooting over, raising Charlie until he was propped against her front, placing a compulsion charm on his throat, and pouring the potion, slowly and carefully, into his mouth.

Her shaking hands caused just a bit of the potion to slide down the side of his face, and she scowled at the display of weakness. When all that remained in the flask was slimy residue, Jenna laid Charlie back down, calmly conjured a bucket, and violently emptied her stomach of everything she'd consumed in the past two days.

Someone rubbed her back soothingly, and she looked around to see that it was the father, who regarded her kindly and handed her a handkerchief. "Thank you," she said politely, if briskly. She then returned to Charlie to cut away his tourniquet, and said, "He needs rest and food and not to move for at least three days, as well as another blood-replenisher. Excuse me."

She vanished the mess, banished the leg to the Hospital Ward, and feebly wandered off to a corner where she can break down in private, leaving the family behind her, gathered around their unconscious son and brother.

* * *

_**A/N:** Updated as of 01-05-13 from present to past tense._


	2. Mors Vincit Omnia

It was over in a flurry of frantic fighting, bated breath, and the dull finality of a body all-too-mortal falling to the floor. Jenna wondered vaguely, as the wizards and witches around her erupted into cheers for their boy hero and as the Dark Lord's supporters attempted to slink away in the confusion, if this meant that Harry Potter was immortal.

It seemed ridiculous that a boy her sister's age really was the Chosen One, and was now Savior of the Wizarding World, the Boy Who Lived Twice…it was entirely too many titles for a skinny, exhausted, messy-haired boy to bear. But the Dark Lord was there, being whisked away by Auror's, looking quite diminished in his limp black robes where before he had been a looming, terrifying figure on the brink of world domination.

"Mors vincit omnia," Jenna reminded herself, and shuddered as she was buffeted to and fro by the jubilant crowd trying to, it seemed, drown their Hero with adulation. A blond girl beside her cried out some nonsense, Jenna glanced away, and Harry Potter vanished out of sight.

As the others searched for him, she was reminded of all those she knew on the 'other side', who were also, or would be, searched for too. Speaking of…where was her father? Surely he had been called to fight alongside the others… Perhaps he'd—fear gripped her stomach, twisting it into knots. Fumbling for the locket that contained hairs from her sister and parents just for this purpose, she whispered, "_Invenire_," on her father's hair.

Her wand swiveled to lead her out of the Great Hall, onto the ruined field where Longbottom had confronted the Dark Lord and where the giants were, by the concentrated force of assorted wizards and witches, being subdued.

The spiders had long since disappeared back into the Forbidden Forest, and her wand led her far under its eaves. Now shaking with terror and exhaustion and a damnable flicker of hope, she continued on, until at last, she came upon…a man.

He was a large man, with severe brows and a square jaw both her sister and her had inherited, and lay beneath a tree, staring sightlessly into the wavering shadows of the forest, unmarked by any wound besides a few abrasions.

The sun filtered through the leaves, green and warm against her head, and Jenna was suddenly aware of the grime she was coated in. _Father would disapprove_, she thought vaguely. A breeze was setting the leaves a-whispering, mocking her, telling her that it was either this fate or Azkaban or banishment from England; they didn't have gold enough to appease the Ministry, not anymore…

And then she was crying, hiccupping and blubbering like a child, snot dripping down her nose, saliva coating her mouth thickly until she was gasping and sliding to the ground, curled into a ball, a headache building and pulsing. She's only half-aware that she was calling for him, her father, the way she had last done when she was six.

"Daddy, daddy, daddy…"

There was a snap, and she whirled, wand pointed tremblingly towards the intruder though she could barely see besides a tall skinny form and a shock of red hair. She knew she would regret this moment, this girlish weakness, but what did it matter anymore when her daddy was—was—.

The boy (_George_, a distant part of her mind supplied) slowly approached with his hands up. She squeezed her eyelids shut, there was no point fighting, they would all know soon enough that the head of the Bulstrode line had died an ignoble, criminal death, leaving her family in ruins and without the support of their patriarch. _Millie—Millie doesn't even know, and Mother…_

Jenna dropped her wand and covered her face and screamed, a jagged, broken sound that clawed at her throat as it escaped. George was holding her and she fought him off, punching and clawing and yelling incoherently, and he let her, shushing her.

"Daddy, daddy, daddy!" She wanted it all to stop, to go away, for the day to end and for her to not _be_.

An immeasurable amount of time later, she stopped crying, because she had no more energy for it, and simply stared at the damp patch her tears had made on George's lurid purple robes. He was patting her awkwardly on the back, and talking to her.

"—you leave, and wanted to say—I mean, I realized we'd—I never said thanks…Sorry about Mum and well—I'm sorry. I'm bloody useless at all this and…and it doesn't matter that he wasn't on our side—my side. He was your dad, and I'm sorry."

"Shut up," she told him thickly, with no real heat, "Help me…help me get him back to the castle."

Suddenly determined despite the fact that she felt as though she could sleep for a thousand years, Jenna struggled to her feet, covered her father in a sheet—it was appeared conjured in a fitting black—and opened her mouth only to find that this—this she couldn't do.

Refusing to meet George's eye, she growled and, impossibly, tears pricked at her eyes.

"Locomotor cadaver," George said hesitantly, and her father's corpse rose gently into the air. Jenna turned her back to it and marched to the castle, limned in the gold of a new sun shining on the shattered hollows of its windows and the gaping fissures in its walls.

_Enough, _she told herself,_ enough, enough, enough. No more crying. _

The Wizarding folk had all settled somewhat when she entered, sitting in groups at tables or surrounding their dead. Quiet talk, peaceful despite the pain, wafted towards the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, and Jenna led George, and her father, to the row of dead.

She noticed that the Death Eaters were lined up separate from the others, and in a fit of savage defiance, she turned to George. "Here," she told him, and he nodded, and set her father down besides a tiny, blond boy who looked swamped in his robes and wore a Gryffindor tie.

"Who do you think you are?" someone yelled and she turned to see a boy advancing on her, brandishing his wand, his Irish accent so heavy as to be nearly indecipherable, caused, she thought, by rage.

"—Putting Death Eater scum next ta' Colin! He's a murderous, treacherous—," he spluttered for a moment, "_DEATH EATER!"_

Silence rung. A few people stepped forward, whether to interrupt or defend the boy Jenna didn't know or care. At any other time she would have pummeled him with her bare fists. Instead, she just looked at him, all the words that could possibly explain to this stupid, angry, little boy just what her father meant to her swelling in her throat.

She couldn't get them out, and she didn't think it would matter if she could, so she just turned away from the boy, curled up beside her father, and closed her eyes, pushing the world away.

_What does it matter,_ she wanted to scream, _he was my dad and I loved him. What did any of it matter now that he's dead?_

* * *

_**A/N:**__ Latin from google, the first phrase means 'death conquers all', and the finding spell really just means 'find' in Latin. I wanted to show the complexities of war, and what taking or not taking sides in it does and means. I have never suffered a grievous loss as Jenna does here, I hope I wasn't dismissive or too 'purple prose-y' about it. Any advice, criticism, general thoughts/questions are really appreciated._

_**To Nonnie**: Actually, it was Fred who was killed in the Final Battle, and Bill was injured during the battle in which Dumbledore was killed. This story is AU (Alternate Universe) so that means some things have been changed around (Millicent has an older sister, Fred is alive, and Charlie is crippled). =)_

_**Edit**: present to past tense as of 01-05-13_


	3. Awakening

Charlie Weasely drifted cautiously from unconsciousness with the memory of pain, and opened his eyes to dim light to find himself, wonder of all wonders, at the Burrow, in his old room. There was a moment of 'blimey, was that all a bloody dream?' before he registered several things.

He had stubble covering his face, his entire body ached in that 'pleasant' way that means he took a right, good beating, and there was a disconcerting feeling in his left leg, From the knee down, that horrible pins and needle sensation rose up every time he twitched.

He sat up slowly, dizziness passing over him like a wave, and flung the sheet off. It took several long minutes before he comprehended what had happened, and then memory flooded back.

The battle at Hogwarts, Voldemort's pronouncement of a break in the fighting, a Death Eater managing a parting shot at him while fleeing…terrible pain in his leg, worse than any dragon inflicted burn…George finding him…a severe-looking witch giving him something to bite into while she seemed to torture him into fainting….

He stared at the stump where his leg should have been, not daring to touch it, hardly able to look at it. How badly was he hurt that they had to…_remove it? _Charlie slumped back onto his pillow, feeling disoriented and sick.

So many thoughts were rushing through his head that he could barely make sense of it. He would hazard a guess that they'd won, whether forever or not he wasn't willing to guess. Who had they lost? What was happening? Was everyone safe? And Harry? Why could he still sort of feel the leg that isn't there?

At that moment, the door swung open, and Ginny walked in carrying a bowl of hot water, judging from the steam. When she saw him wide awake and hesitantly smiling, she shrieked loudly and the bowl crashed to the ground, splashing hot water everywhere.

"O bollocks!" Ginny cries, vanishing the mess away, "Charlie!"

She flung herself at him, and hugged the breath right out of him. Incidentally, she also landed on his stump.

"Ow, Ginny, _ow!" _

"Oh sorry, I—hold on a moment." Ginny took a deep breath, Charlie plugged his ears, and she bellowed, "MUM! EVERYONE! COME UPSTAIRS, CHARLIE'S WOKEN UP!"

There was nearly a stampede as various Weasely thunder into his room from downstairs, upstairs, and across the hall. Fred appeared in a towel, having apparently run from the middle of a shower.

There was an explosion of sound that had his head ringing and he was manhandled lovingly by everyone, except Harry, who seemed a bit unsure of where he fitted in it all, though was grinning broadly. Charlie noticed that Dad wasn't around. "—At work, oh I have to floo him!" his Mum said, before she was back to kissing him and crying.

Eventually, everyone settled down and he could get a proper update on what had happened in the three days (three days!) that he'd been out of it.

"Missed the bloody final battle!" Ron exclaimed, "You should've seen Harry, he was brilliant—and Mum! She took down Bellatrix Lestrange like _that!_" He snapped his fingers and let out a whoop.

"A'right, a'right, rub it in why don't you. Seems I've missed all the good parts," Charlie replied.

Mum looked at him reproachfully, "Really, how can you say that? You nearly _died!"_

George then interrupted, taking over telling the tale of how he was saved by, "—Jennavieve Bulstrode, dunno if you remember her. She was two years down from you, in Ravenclaw. Bit big, Beater for Ravenclaw?"

"What? That was Millicent Bulstrode's sister?" Ron exclaimed, "She could've killed you!"

"I vaguely remember her," Charlie said, as Ginny smacks Ron upside his head.

"I can't believe you Ron! She worked really hard trying to help Charlie! And she was only an apprentice, she was sick right after, don't you remember? And then she went and found out her dad was killed all on her own."

The mood instantly turned somber, and Ron shamefacedly looked down and rubbed his head.

"Ragnar Bulstrode," Mum said quietly, "A _horrid_ man, but no one deserves to lose their father, nor find them alone like that."

"Who else did we lose?" Charlie asked.

"Some friends of mine," Ginny murmured, and Harry puts an arm around her waist after, amusingly, casting furtive glances in Charlie's direction. "A lot of Auror's. Tonks, Lupin. Professor Sinistra."

"Blimey," Charlie whispered.

"Professor Vector too," Fred said.

"But the Lestranges are both dead, and so's Greyback. Kingsley Shacklebolt is interim Minster too."

After that it was a long list of the dead, and Harry quietly told Charlie about Professor Snape and how he really was loyal to Dumbledore 'til the end, and about Narcissa Malfoy saving Harry's life. Charlie could sense there was a lot left out of that story, and it seemed Ginny did too, as they glanced at each other and then away with a knowing look.

By the end of it, Charlie was feeling the pull of sleep, and as cowardly as it was, he asked sleepily, "No chance of saving my leg?"

"Oh, Charlie…there was a wasting spell on it," Mum answered, stroking his hair back from his face.

"Should thank, Jen—Jenna—Jennavieve, then," Charlie yawned, and unable to resist the pull of his eyelids, sank into a deep sleep.

He woke up the next morning, just after dawn, from confusing dreams that he couldn't quite grasp. Before he was even fully awake, Charlie had decided to live up to the dragon-keeper persona while in the privacy of his own room, and with no small amount of 'bloody hell I'm going to be sick', he reached out and touched the stump of his leg.

It was the strangest sensation. Smooth, rounded skin where his knee should be…It wasn't as terrifying as he had thought it would be, but Charlie had no idea what this meant for him now. Would he need a wooden leg like Moody, or could he get a better prosthetic? How would he—he swallowed—how would he keep his job? Would they let him back to the preserve, if he could get used to it enough?

The thought of never being able to work with dragons, or fly again, made him want to cry. Charlie buried his head in his hands and scrubbed the stubble on his face roughly. _I'd be all right, _he told himself, _if I just knew more about…about this. _

Sick of feeling upended, Charlie growlled and sat up, swinging his legs (_leg?_) over the edge of the bed. Taking a deep breath, he slowly stood, swayed with his arms wheeling, and fell back into bed. He tried again and again until finally he could stand, although propped up on the wall.

He grinned, panting, and grasped his wand. With a wave, he transfigured one of the clothes hangers that had fallen out of his gaping, overstuff closet into a crutch, and then slowly, with an awkward shuffle-hop, made his way across his slanted, creaking floorboards to the door.

He turned back in the doorway. His room seemed very small, all of a sudden, his bed sagging in the middle, his ancient dragon figurines still on the windowsill above it, their enchantment long since faded. Bill's bed was opposite his, the wall above it still plastered with Quidditch posters and models posing against brooms and the stacks of travel and curse books and explorer's biographies covered in a fine layer of dust.

Charlie felt old for twenty-five, and with a shake of his head, ducked out of his room and headed for the bathroom.

* * *

_**A/N: **Change of POV. Does this all seem realistic to you? I've done some research, and my aim is to be as realistic as fanfiction about magic can be. Please review!_

**_Edit: _**_01-05-13 present to past tense.  
_


	4. Early Morning Frustrations

Charlie had his shower sitting down, scrubbing viciously at every inch of himself, sans his stump. His previous bravado seemed to have left him—he didn't want to touch it. It was too…_wrong. _When he stumbled out of the shower and wiped the steam from the mirror, he was greeted by a haggard face with more beard than he'd ever before allowed himself.

It wasn't a bad look, but not one he wanted to maintain. So, dripping water everywhere, he shaved it all off. There were a few nicks because he was wobbly as hell on one leg, even leaning against the sink, but finally he looked more like himself. _From the waist up, anyway, _he thought_. _

In an effort to stop moping like a baby, Charlie pulled his best 'Peeves face'; eyes bulging, nostrils flared wide, tongue sticking out. It didn't work.

"You'll get stuck like that, dear," the mirror said.

Charlie grunted and grabbed a towel to dry himself off, and then scowled. He'd forgotten to bring a fresh set of clothes, and he'd closed his bedroom door behind him. It'd be too much of a headache to summon them, and conjured clothes never felt or fit right. He was never really good at conjuring things anyway. Too many little details to forget.

So he wrapped his towel around him, leaned on his crutch, and headed back to his room. Midway, he bumped into Hermione, who squeaked.

"Sorry!" she cried, "Erm, glad you're up! I was…I was with your dad, at the Ministry, or I'd have…erm, said hello…yesterday." She was blushing furiously, and it made Charlie feel just a bit better.

"No worries, Hermione," he said.

She nodded, glances down and then immediately back up to an undetermined point over his shoulder. "Excuse me," she whispered, mortified, and sidles past him and down the stairs.

Charlie grinned after her. Even crippled, he still had it.

The process of changing into clothes utterly ruined his good mood. He looked utterly ridiculous with one empty leg of his trousers just _hanging there. _He tamped down on the desire to scream and bludgeon everything to death when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

It was Percy, his hair looking like Errol after a particularly rough flight. He was still in pajamas.

"Charlie." Percy sounded surprised that he was awake.

Charlie scowled at the wall, because, stupid coward that he was, he couldn't bring himself to look his younger brother in the eye.

"You…I…Would you like some help?" Percy asked tentatively.

"No," Charlie snarls. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Percy's fists clench. "Yes," Charlie said sourly, relenting.

"We can fold it up," Percy said, and after a pause in which Charlie still refused to look at him, waved his wand. The hanging jean leg shrunk and then tucked itself neatly away.

"Thanks," Charlie said.

"You're welcome," Percy replied.

There was another long moment of awkward silence, and then Percy said, "Would you like some breakfast? You can probably catch Dad before he goes to the Ministry."

Charlie shrugged. If forced to tell the truth under pain of death, he'd say that he'd rather not do anything ever again. But that would be ridiculous, so he struggled with his pride, leaned against his crutch again, and swiveled toward the door.

Percy was waiting, patiently, his eyes fixed on Charlie's face.

"Right. Let's go then," Charlie said.

The stairs were their own type of hell. Charlie considered charming them into a slide like the stairs leading to the girl's dormitory in Hogwarts, but the Burrow was finicky, and he'd rather not risk it.

Percy helped, in his careful, tentative way, and they survived that little adventure. Charlie still felt as though he could bite the head off a dragon, which was saying something, because he worked—_had worked—_with them.

Dad was just grabbed a handful of floo when they made it down. He dropped it back in the pot on the mantelpiece with a beam and strode over to give him a hug.

"Charlie! Sorry I missed you last night. How are you feeling?"

Charlie shrugged, straining to smile for his Dad. "I'm alright. How's everything? How is it you're working at the Ministry already?"

"Ah, you know Kingsley's interim Minister? Well, everyone is in a bit of a rush to secure the Ministry. It was, as you know, heavily compromised. Though things are so unstable, everyone's priorities seem a bit clearer, so Kingsley's recruited me to help him reorder it."

"Congratulations, Dad! You're practically undersecretary for the Minister now!"

"None of that now, I'm only helping," Arthur said, blushing, "I had better be off though."

He strode back to the fireplace and then pauses, hand in the floo pot (_no pun intended_, thought Charlie vaguely). "Er, don't go outside just yet, eh? The press, miracle of miracles, have reordered themselves faster than anything and are hounding Harry, the poor boy."

"No chance of that, Dad." Charlie said, and regretted it instantly when Dad's face fell just a little bit. "Well, I'll see you then," Arthur said with forced cheer, and then, "Ministry of Magic!"

With a _whoosh _of green flame, he was gone, and Charlie was alone with Percy with the Burrow creaking around them and their mother clattering around in the kitchen.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ I kind of feel lost with this fic now, which makes me feel useless and sad. I am going to stick with it, as I have plot points and characterization all developed and stuff, it's just...I've started this off in a way I'm not that happy with. ~sigh~ What do you think? And concrit to give me?_

_**Edit**: present to past tense 01-05-13_


	5. Moody Consultations

Charlie sat on the Burrow's creaking, slanted porch that, due to its age and the number of people who had made use of it in one way or another, was as smooth as a river-stone (making it dangerous in snow and rain). He'd eaten breakfast while Mum had fussed over him and tried to not mention his missing leg, and Percy had buggered off somewhere, and Ron and his lot hadn't woken up yet, so he was alone and it was very quiet.

He was feeling unbelievably out of sorts. Charlie was a simple bloke. His life had been wonderfully uncomplicated. Perhaps unconventional, true, but not by much compared to most Wizarding families in Britain.

As it were, he'd survived, miraculously, two Wizarding Wars. He remembered the day his uncles had been reported missing, and the night they'd been reported murdered, and the weeks in which Mum had cried and he'd had to look after Percy while Bill made sure the house hadn't fallen apart and Dad tried to keep his job.

Then there'd been peace, and he'd went to Hogwarts and had girlfriends, and excelled at Quidditch and fallen in love with dragons. After Hogwarts, he'd gotten an entry level job in Romania, broke the news to his Mum about the preserve in Romania (consequentially the hour before his portkey so he would be able to make a quick escape) and then spent wonderful years abroad with giant, temperamental, gorgeous lizards of ginormous variety (and quite a few eggs and little fire-breathing lizards).

Only then war started again, and Bill up and married a Veela (which secretly he'd always thought quite ironic as he was the one everyone thought would marry a magical creature of some sort, though Merlin help him if he ever called Fleur that) and he found out the Harry Potter was actually practically a Weasely, and then…

Well, then he had missions for Dumbledore and the Order trying to recruit and make agreements and watch over Wizarding trading, and people died, and his family went into hiding, and Ron disappeared with his girlfriend and the Boy-Who-Lived, and his little sister was tortured at the school he'd always seen as a home away from home and then he had his leg _bloody cut off._

Charlie growled and found that he was panting and had a headache. _The point of it all_, he thought to himself savagely, _is that now everything is Merlin-be-damned complicated. _What was he supposed to do with one effing leg?

Moodily, he clubbed a garden gnome that had dared approach to close with one of his crutches, and it went sailing with a grating whine. The door creaked open behind him, and Ginny plopped next to him.

"How's it feel?" she asked him and nudged his trouser-covered stump with a finger.

Her sheer daring took him so by surprised that for a moment he stared at her. She looked back up at him silently.

"Do you know," he said after pausing to clear his throat, "That you're the first to actually do that?"

"Do what? Look at it?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, well, I mean. There's no undoing it, is there, and—" Ginny stopped, evidently deciding by his darkening face that she was heading into Ron levels of tactlessness.

"Not unless you want to die, I mean," she finished quietly, "And after…after everything, I'd rather have you with one less leg than you dead."

"Easy for you to say," he muttered, "I'm going to look like Moody."

Unbelievably, Ginny snorted and rolled her eyes at him. "You pompous prat, you still have your face completely intact, and those muscles of yours haven't wasted away, and besides, Mood only had that claw-footed leg because it scared people and he used to stuff explosive potions in it for last minute defense."

Charlie stared, feeling mollified and faintly ridiculous. "He was completely mad, wasn't he?"

Ginny hummed and leaned against his shoulder. Together they gazed out onto the greening moors rolling away to meet a flat grey sky brightened to pearly white by the sun.

"Mum's scheduled an appointment with the Bulstrode girl and her supervisor." Ginny said finally, "Her specifically since she last worked on you. She's coming in from Mungo's later today."

Charlie stayed silent and turned his gaze to the twisted apple tree with its knotted limbs spreading over Dad's shed. A gnome was peeking out of the tire swing hanging from one of the branches, bulbous nose and eyes all that could be seen of it. It ducked beneath the edge of the tire when it saw him looking.

"I don't know what to do," he admitted quietly.

"You will, once you've been seen to," Ginny said, "In the meanwhile…" She shifted to look up at him, and he met her brown eyes with is blue ones. "There's a lot to do. A few more funerals, and stuff at the Ministry." The corners of her eyes crinkled though she wasn't smiling. "We're war heroes, you know. And Charlie…you're still you, yeah? You can still do everything you did before. But I mean, you're allowed to be upset and angry."

"Bugger," Charlie croaked, "Gin-gins gone and grown up on me."

"You'll be right buggered if you call me that again," she said, and poked him again.

Charlie laughed, and it inexplicably came out as a croak that became a tingly nose and tears welling in his eyes. He hid his face in his hands, and Ginny patted him gently on the shoulder while he pretended to not be crying and she pretended not to notice.

Still, he was rather glad that she stuck around, as it meant he wouldn't actually dissolve into sobs and perhaps curse his crutches into oblivion.

* * *

Jennavieve Bulstrode was not a pretty girl. In fact, she was a bit scary looking; heavy-set with thick dark hair in a bun, very black eyes, and a large jaw. She entirely swamped Ginny, who was leading her towards the sitting room; though Bulstrode wasn't fat she was round and big-boned.

She came in looking straight ahead as though restraining herself from banishing the Burrow's contents at least five feet away from her lest it infect her, and Charlie mulishly refused to stand. The woman had saved his life, but she had also crippled him, and besides, everyone was staring, which meant that if he stood he'd probably stumble, and embarrass himself.

"Afternoon!" her supervisor said, a tweedy looking man with a shock of brown hair standing at all ends around his head. His name was Ewan Cleggor, and together with Bulstrode, who silently nodded at all of them, they made an odd pair.

"Ah, Charlie Weasely, am I right?" he asked.

Charlie nodded.

"Right then," said Cleggor, "If you all wouldn't mind giving us some privacy…"

Mum opened her mouth, but Charlie shot her a look and she huffed and left the room, ushering Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Harry, Percy, and the twins ahead of her.

"Now, Charlie, I'm going to ask Bulstrode to conduct the examination," Cleggor said, his voice less jovial, "I will, of course, be overseeing it all, but she needs the practice. I do want to reassure you the Mungo's has examined your removed appendage extensively, and Bulstrode was found to have conducted herself exceedingly admirably under the pressure and circumstance."

The Healer drew a loveseat closer and sat, Bulstrode remained hovering. Charlie glanced at her; she looked down her nose at him and he felt his hackles rise. "There was nothing else to be done but remove it," Cleggor continued.

"I know," Charlie said, "No offense, but I'd just like to get this over with."

Cleggor's expression remained smoothly distant and he nodded. "Understandable. Bulstrode?"

Jennavieve Bulstrode came forward. "I'm going to examine your leg for nodules that can sometimes grow." At his confused expression, she explained, slowly as if to a child, "Bits of bone. It happens. I'm also going to check your pain and sensitivity receptors. Is there anything you'd like to ask or tell me?"

Charlie shrugged. "I…can feel it sometimes…" he trailed off uncertainly.

"That's normal," Bulstrode said, "Sensation often remains." She knelt in front of him, her hands, surprisingly nimble and long fingered, hovering over his stump. "The brain is used to the limb being there. Phantom pain."

"Oh."

The corner of Bulstrode's mouth quirked upward, as though taunting him for his monosyllabic response. She waved her wand over his trouser leg, it unfolded and rolled back to reveal the rounded end of his leg. Cleggor leaned forward, scrutinizing her work. Charlie forced himself to look down as well. If he was going to be taunted by a girl who obviously thought a great deal of herself, he'd bloody well face it.

Bulstrode trailed her warm fingers over the stump, prodding lightly and glancing up occasionally to gauge his reaction. He was surprised she didn't don gloves first.

"How does it feel?" she asked.

"Odd," he replied shortly.

"No unusual sensitivity or pain?"

"No."

"How has your magic been?"

"Fine," he said, scowling, "I lost my leg not my magic."

"A side effect of trauma is that spell-casting is sometimes affected. It's almost always psychological." Bulstrode said, spelled his trouser leg back into place and stood, summoning a stool over. She perched primly on it, and Charlie unkindly thought that it was quite a feat for her to do so gracefully. He was allowed to be unkind, he thought, he was now a _cripple_.

"I'd like to discuss options with you," she said, "If you'd like your family here…"

Charlie shook his head, attempting a sardonic smile that fell flat. "I'm a big boy, I can be in charge of my own life."

She shrugged minutely, dismissively, and glanced at Cleggor who encouraged her along. "Of course. Well, this is obviously a difficult and trying time for you, and its is expected that you would be experiencing much emotional turmoil."

Charlie snorted, "Understatement."

Bulstrode frowned just slightly and continued, "There are a number of options available to you. Prosthetics have become much advanced, should you wish to pursue that route. I will, unless you'd prefer otherwise, be your Healer—"

"Trainee Healer," Charlie cut in. This time Bulstrode seemed put off her train of thought, and Charlie cheered himself.

Bulstrode took a breath, opened her mouth, and to the surprise of both Charlie and Cleggor, said, "Quite right. Trainee Healer. In any case, I will be available to you for support and intermittent check-ups and for physical therapy. What with your status—," her lip curled just slightly, "—it is most likely that I'll be meeting you here, unless you'd prefer a different space. The press are quite persistent, I see." She must have passed the reporters camped outside as she walked from the apparition point up the drive. "Any questions?"

Charlie stayed silent, wanting her to squirm.

"You a Slytherin?" he asked eventually, when he could hear her breath and Cleggor began to look uncertain, and Bulstrode's eyes narrowed, her mouth thinning in an acutely McGonagall way.

"Now, Mr Weasely—," Cleggor interrupted.

"Yes, although that is neither here nor there," she said crisply.

"What side of the war where you on?" he asked, "Because then I'd find your treatment of me to be suspect. Who knows if it was _you_, who didn't curse me?"

Bulstrode went white, although at first he thought it was because he'd shocked, maybe scared, her. Charlie leaned back into the couch feeling savage and very distantly horrid. What did it matter? She was a stranger, she was just a trainee, and her kind had caused this bloody war in the first place, the war that had ruined Bill and killed Tonks, who was his friend, and maybe she had cursed him, had no one looked into it?

It turned out Bulstrode was in fact very, very angry. She leaned forward slowly, and he was unnervingly put in mind of a dragon sizing up its prey. Cleggor once again tried to intervene, but she cut him off before he could draw breath.

"I was on my family's side. I did not support them, I was unhappy with their choices and their methods, but they were family, and I loved them, and I am foremost a _healer_."

Charlie wanted to say 'trainee' again, but he felt just a bit threatened and suddenly exhausted. He looked away instead in the face of her venomous tone.

"As a healer, my job is not to make judgments on anything not relating to the health of my patients," she said quietly, evenly, "Therefore I will not point out the absolute stupidity you displayed with your insinuations nor the fallacies of your arguments and judgments, as they are not my concern. I would, however, expect that you treat me with the decency you would afford anyone who is _treating your body and mind._"

She stood then, abruptly. "I'm done here. I have words for your mother, as you don't seem to be in the mood to receive them like an adult wizard." She strode out, floorboards creaking under her footsteps.

"Well," Cleggor drawled, running a hand through his hair, "Can't say you didn't ask for that. Funnily enough, your brother, George, testified that she had not, in fact, cursed you."

Charlie kept his eyes on the sooty rug before the empty fireplace, feeling shame rising in his stomach.

"No worries," Cleggor said kindly, "She has a very strict code when it comes to Healing; you're quite safe."

"I'm a dragon wrangler," Charlie snapped, "Or was!"

"Aye, and she's a woman," Cleggor replied, "It's been an event, though, Mr. Weasely, and I daresay I shall see you again, though perhaps not soon. Keep off your leg, and away from alcohol, and have a good day."

With that, Cleggor left the room after his apprentice, and Charlie sunk deeper into the couch. _Bloody effing hell_, he thought to himself.

* * *

_**A/N: **__This is really damned long, and is a present of sorts for _ . _ because she reviewed and I got all inspired. I have big plans for Jennavieve, though perhaps no more chapters from her POV as I've begun mapping this story out and figure everything would work better from Charlie's POV. Also, he's being a bum right now, because he has a nasty temper and is in a vulnerable place and Jenna is someone he can 'safely' take it out on. He's also not the most reliable narrator..._

_This entire fic has been changed from present to past tense, lemme know of any mistakes or inconsistencies and tell me what you think! Thank you to all my reviewers and readers!_


	6. The Daily Prophet - May 8th 1998

**The Daily Prophet Thursday May 8th 1998**

_Hogwarts to Re-Open!_

_by Matilda Thistle_

* * *

_…Headmistress McGonagall assured the Prophet that Hogwarts would be repaired in time for the new semester beginning September 1st, and Wizarding parents across Britain heaved a sigh of relief to know that normalcy would be returning to their children's lives, and so soon! Acting Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt earlier assured the Prophet that the Ministry was aiding in and overseeing repairs of the distinguished castle. _

_"Every able wizard and witch is working tirelessly to ensure Hogwarts is sound and safe for both returning and new students," he said, and also added that there would be an extra year added to the Hogwarts curriculum. "It would be remiss of the Ministry to ignore the plight of the 7th year students who had to endure their NEWTs in such a harrowing year, which obviously would have affected their grades and mental health. It would be, of course, optional."_

_"I think it's a brilliant idea," Headmistress McGonagall told the Prophet as she administered orders to a number of workers on site at Hogwarts. "And it's absolutely uplifting to see the Ministry pull itself together after such a deep infiltration during the past year, I must say I'm looking forward to what the Ministry has in store for the Wizarding World at large as it recuperates."_

_McGonagall went on to say that Shacklebolt had her vote in the upcoming elections, which may sway many a wizard's opinion in favor of the seasoned auror. Shacklebolt has been front and center of Wizarding News since the demise of You-Know-Who during the Battle at Hogwarts, in which he issued, shortly after being instated, that all Azkaban detainees would be removed to a Dementor free prison and their charges reviewed. As of yesterday, 37 prisoners had been freed with compensation; two-dozen of them wrongly imprisoned Muggleborns._

_"It's only what we deserve," said Barbara Milton, whose twin children, 17-year-old Muggleborns, had been returned to her, "They're recovering. I'm one of the lucky ones, of course. They were almost safer in Azkaban than in the country. My niece was killed by Snatchers when she tried to run away."_

_It's a tale not so different from the hundreds being told all over the country. St. Mungo's has been sending out Healers and Mediwizards all over Britain to meet with the influx of injured and traumatized. _

_"We've renewed our tour service," Head-Healer Smethwick told the Prophet early Tuesday morning, "There's simply too many in need of specialized service for us to treat at the Hospital, and indeed its better to visit our patients in an environment they're comfortable in, as rarely do we treat physical and not mental illnesses."_

_ It is a sad reality that though rarely were there physical ailments for Mungo's to attend to, there had been an astronomical rise in reported and confirmed werewolf infections, prompting a varied outcry from pro- and anti-werewolf groups. Cries the Minister, current and running, plan to address in their next campaign. It very well might be the deciding campaign in the political race for power…_

* * *

_**A/N:**__ What do you think?_


	7. Mayhem and Misery in St Mungo's

Bill looked like death warmed over, and it wasn't the scars. As soon as dinner was over, and just as Mum began haranguing Ginny and Hermione into doing the cleaning up, Charlie nudged Bill and glanced meaningfully out the window, where the sun was sliding under the cloud layer towards the horizon.

Bill gave him a discreet nodded, murmured something to Fleur who was chatting with Percy in French, and stood. Charlie un-shrunk his crutches (they kept getting in the way) and hobbled after his big brother out the Burrow.

"You look like shite," Charlie told him as the screen door banged shut behind them, and Bill laughed.

"Yeah, Dad said the same…" He trailed off, and Charlie carefully made his way down the porch steps, giving Bill the time he always needed to express his feelings.

It took a while, and by the time Bill sighed and began, they were at the tire swing overlooking the little valley (more of a dip between hills, really) that was the Weasely Quidditch Pitch.

"Fleur's had a miscarriage," Bill said, his voice rough.

Charlie's crutch slipped under him and Bill hastily caught him.

"Bloody—was…were you…trying? For a kid?" Charlie spluttered, trying to realign the damned crutches underneath him.

Bill shook his head, ponytail whipping back and forth. "Nah. Was a surprise to both of us."

"Oh."

The sun winked out and a chill breeze rushed through the just-beginning-to-green grasses. Behind them, a window was opened and peals of laughter drifted up to the evening sky.

"Fleur's alright about it; said it happens a lot for Veela, even quarter-Veelas." Bill went on, "But. I mean, I was panicking at first, 'cos we were in the middle of the war and all, and we found out right after we went into hiding and I just kept thinking, 'this is what Mum went through, this is what Harry's Mum and Dad went through'…"

Charlie glanced sidelong at him. Bill's mouth was twisted, throwing his scars into sharp relief, and he was glaring at the stars just beginning to glitter into being.

"Never thought you'd want kids," he said cautiously.

"Never thought I did," Bill replied.

They said nothing more, and eventually turned back to the Burrow as Charlie's leg began to twinge. Just before they stepped into the light and warmth of the Burrow, Bill glanced at him.

"I didn't tell anyone. Didn't seem a point…"

"I get it," Charlie answered, "And I'm sorry."

Bill's mouth lifted the tiniest bit; his brown eyes glinting faintly yellow in the light. "Thanks."

* * *

Mungo's was bustling, and Charlie was cranky. He'd woken Friday morning with a headache and a deep ache in the bones of his left leg. His mood had continued to sour at breakfast, when Mum had cheerily announced that she'd made an appointment with Bulstrode.

Charlie had been deterred from complaining by a quelling look from his dad. Apparently the twins had decided to reopen Wheezes, despite half the Death Eater's still roaming and resisting Ministry capture, and Mum had dissolved into tears trying to convince them not to.

He had, however, flat out refused to floo to the hospital. "Mum! I've only got a leg and a half, and I hated flooing before. I'll probably brain some poor bugger with my crutches and break my nose falling out!"

"We have to Charlie, Healer Bulstrode said you couldn't apparate until you'd stabilized because mentally you still envision yourself with both…legs."

At his murderous look, she'd teared up, and Ginny had sighed so explosively he was surprised he didn't feel the resulting gale. "Oh, buck up Mum!" she said bracingly, patting Mum on the arm as she sniffled, "Charlie knows you didn't mean it like that."

"It's alright Mum," he'd said reluctantly at Ginny's threatening glare, "I'll floo."

So he'd spun out of the fireplace and promptly ended up sprawled on the ground, the crutches that were magically shrunken in his robe pocket digging into his side. He ignored the looks from the witches and wizards in the waiting room and hauled himself to his feet, expanded his crutches, and hobbled angrily over to the reception desk.

The witch sitting there snapped her gum at him and waved to the sign behind her. "Read it and follow the directions, mate," she drawled.

"What the bloody hell," he said loudly, "Is the point of hiring people who don't want to do their job?"

The girl blew a bubble at him and turned back to her Witch Weekly magazine.

Ginny, coming up behind him and trailing soot, tugged on his sleeve. "Come on Charlie," she said, "Ron stopped Mum for something when I left, so she told me where to go."

Charlie followed Ginny to the lifts, where they joined a tired looking witch who'd been hit with the Medusa jinx. The snakes that were her hair hissed a greeting, and the lift rose.

"Fourth Floor, Spell Damage," chimed the automated voice.

They got out and turned left along a portrait-lined corridor, where a Healer shouted after them about Spattergroit and nudity. Finally, they got to a door marked 'Healer Cleggor' and underneath, 'Trainee Healer Bulstrode'. Ginny knocked. Charlie prepared himself. Despite feeling foul, he'd be buggered if he let his temper get away with him again. He was twenty-five for Merlin's sake.

"One moment please," Bulstrode called from behind the door.

In an effort to distract himself from the ensuing confrontation with the aggravating witch, he asked Ginny, "So, you and the Savior of the Wizarding World. How goes that?"

Ginny, surprisingly, didn't blush. "Fine," she said evenly, "We're…talking. Seeing how things go." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear; a tell if there ever was one.

"Oh? He's not sweeping you off your feet, then?"

She smiled bitterly. "He's trying, but. I dunno." She huffed and crossed her arms. "It's complicated."

Charlie grinned for a moment, feeling nostalgic. "No rush," he reminded Ginny, and she blinked and then smiled gratefully.

"Yeah, I suppose."

"And if he buggers your feelings up too badly, I'll thump him."

Ginny's response was a dramatic eye-roll that was interrupted by the door swinging open. Bulstrode greeted them looking disarmingly frazzled. It put him at ease, just the tiniest bit.

"Weasely," she said by way of greeting, "Come in."

Cleggor's office cum examination room, was perfectly neat, at odds with what he remembered of the Healer's manic appearance. There was a desk with a stack of files on it, a wall turned bookshelf, two cozy looking armchairs (one chintz, one striped), a day bed in a corner, a desk behind a partition that must have been Bulstrode's, and an examination table. The window that overlooked a rainy, grimy part of London was charmed to show the seaside on a sunny day.

Bulstrode waved him and Ginny over to the striped armchair and vanished behind her desk's partition. Ginny sat on the armrest while Charlie stretched his leg out and began massaging his stump.

"Maybe it's the rain," Ginny remarked.

"Hurting you, is it?" Bulstrode asked, reemerging and carrying a brochure and a vial. "Thought it might be. I suppose you didn't get a chance to get those potions I recommended?"

"I did, actually," he replied. Ginny poked him subtly, and he relaxed his tense muscles. "For bone growth and nerve revitalization, right?"

Bulstrode nodded, sinking into the chintz armchair with a sigh. "Right." She tossed him the vial, and he caught it. "Pain reliever. Anything from muscle to bone pain."

"_Dido's Demand_," Charlie read, "I used this for Quidditch."

"You played Chaser, I remember."

Charlie glanced up in surprise, but Bulstrode was staring out the window, looking oddly melancholy. Ginny coughed, and Bulstrode turned away.

"Anyway," she said briskly, "I wanted to ask you if you've given any thought to a prosthetic."

"Some," Charlie said, "Mum got me a few pamphlets…"

Bulstrode nodded and handed him the pamphlet she was holding. "That's good, it'll help you get an idea of what you want and what's available. Take a look at that, and tell me what you prefer and I'll tell you if it's worth it."

The next half hour passed in a surprisingly short amount of time, with Bulstrode giving her professional opinion with a side of snide, and Ginny commenting about all the things one could do with a prosthetic. There were, as he'd found out before, a surprising amount of choices.

There were plain wooden pegs that reminded him of pirate stories, to ones that were animal hooves or paws, to more that had seven-league charms on them, and still others that changed colors to match outfits. All had fireproof, waterproof, speed enhancement, and Quidditch optimum variations. Charlie eventually decided on a no-nonsense prosthetic leg that could be charmed to look as real as his left leg and had a maximum comfort level.

"How much is it, though?" Charlie asked, apprehensive. He didn't have much, not enough to squander when he didn't know if he'd get his job back, and he _could _manage with the crutches…

"Approximately one hundred and fifty galleons, accounting for customization and fitting, and any charms you want to put on it for flexibility, durability, and protection."

Charlie winced, and found Bulstrode watching him carefully. None of the Weaselys could spare that, except perhaps the Twins. Hell, after the fiasco with Potter and his little brother, he didn't even know if the Weaselys would ever even be allowed access to Gringotts again.

"Right," he said, "Well, I'll think about it…" He rose with some difficulty and accepted Bulstrode's outstretched hand with accord, shaking it firmly.

"Make an appointment, Weasely," she said, "When you've decided. I think otherwise, you're ready to go."

"Thanks," he replied. The appointment had gone well, and he was rather surprised, and proud of himself. Bulstorde gave him the faintest of smiles and saw them out the door, where her next appointment was waiting, his face hidden behind shaggy hair. They barely spared him a second glance.

"You shouldn't worry about the galleons," Ginny remarked as they headed for the lift, "The twins will help out, even Harry will."

Charlie had opened his mouth to answer when they heard a scream. Spinning around and nearly tripping Ginny, Charlie saw Bulstrode's door was flung open and a man was running for them, shaggy hair streaming behind his pale face and his mouth twisted in a hideous grimace.

Charlie fumbled for his wand—he wasn't going to be quick enough—_damn these crutches_—the man raised his wand—

"Incarcerous!"

Ropes flew out from the end of Ginny's wand to twist around the man, who fell face-forward with a hoarse yell and a hideous crunch.

They exchanged a look, as hospital staff began to rush toward them, before Charlie hobbled as fast as he could back to the office.

"I'll watch him!" Ginny called.

He didn't bother to reply and threw himself into the room. The bookshelves were smoking but unharmed, and Bulstrode was on the ground, shaken but not bleeding, and otherwise intact.

"I'm fine, Weasely," she snapped, standing, "He only surprised me; put your wand away."

"The bookshelf?" he asked.

"Protected. They're Cleggor's personal books, they would be."

Charlie slowly stowed his wand. "What was that? Who—"

"Only an angry wizard with a dead wife and missing children," Bulstrode replied, "Nothing different from the others." She sank into the chintz chair and rubbed at her temples.

"Others?" he demanded, outraged, "You've been attacked before?"

Her eyes snapped open and she glared at him, mouth curling bitterly. "I'm a _Slytherin_," she drawled, "My family was _quite_ _blatantly_ in support of the Dark Lord. _Obviously_ I supported him as well, either because I'm a _coward_ or because I'm _Dark_, and now I'm either _poisoning my patients_ or trying to _ingratiate_ myself to the _Wizarding_ _community_."

Her sarcasm was so heavy he could practically touch it roiling in the air between them, but before he could say anything more, Healer Cleggor burst in.

"You're alright?" he asked his apprentice, "The Aurors are being called, they'll want to investigate..."

"He attacked me first, and I only cast Protego and Stupefy, my wand will prove it," Bulstrode said wearily, "I know the procedure. I suppose he got away?"

"No, Ginny got him," Charlie interjected.

"It doesn't matter anyway," Bulstrode said dismissively, "He'll be let off on grounds of grief or temporary insanity or simply because it was me."

Charlie clenched his jaw. Someone had attacked Bulstrode, more than once, using the same reasoning he had, and she didn't even expect any justice for it.

He had always thought himself intelligent, level headed, but now...well, apparently he was no better than the people spouting about blood purity and trying to get rid of Muggleborns for something they couldn't control. She had told him he was being stupid and prejudiced, that day at the cottage, but he'd been too angry and busy with feeling sorry for himself to really think about what she'd said.

"You should leave," Bulstrode said, interrupting him, "You need to rest your leg for the ointment to work at maximum capacity."

Cleggor glanced between the two of them surreptitiously and then sidled out to deal with the commotion outside of his office. Charlie could hear Ginny telling someone what had happened, and several voices speaking at once, but he wasn't really paying attention. He was looking at Bulstrode, really looking at her. Bulstrode had not, as he'd thought earlier, looked frazzled. She looked exhausted, she didn't move with the grace she'd shown at the Burrow days ago, but slowly and with a stiffness he could recognize as overworked muscles.

"Bulstrode," he said, once he realized that she was waiting for him to respond, "I'm...I'm sorry for the way I've treated you." And attempting to interject as much sincerity in his voice as possible, he added, "Thank you for saving my life, and for helping me."

Then, feeling incongruously wrong footed—_hah!_—under her piercing gaze, he swung around and left her in the office.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ I know the price of the leg might seem ridiculous, but according to the HP Wiki, a galleon is equal to about 5 pounds. A very basic google search told me that a basic prosthetic in the UK would cost about 3,000 pounds. 150 galleons is roughly 750 pounds. I made it cheaper because magic makes things easier, and its still expensive, especially for the Weasely's. Still, it might be a massive over/underestimate. Lemme know what you think, this chapter is one of my longest and one I'm least sure about. Bless you all my readers and reviewers, I don't know why you stick around, I feel like my writing is crap. Do you all think I should put a little bit more description? Oh, and yeah, Percy speaks French. Are you honestly surprised?  
_


	8. On Envy

_**A/N:** **WARNING FOR TRIGGERS.** There is a description of a panic attack up until the line break. Feel free to skip if you feel it will be triggering for you._

* * *

He couldn't breathe.

Jagged lights in green and red and purple and yellow and blue flew past and singed his hair and slammed against his shield, the ground, other people. He could hear screams and swearing and spells being shrieked out and roars and the earth shook underneath the giants' steps.

Then a spider was scuttling toward him and he blasted it away and spun and—pain. Pain worse than he'd ever felt before, flaying his skin, piercing the muscle, jangling up the nerves in his leg and bursting like stars, like dragon fire inside his chest and head and—

He couldn't breathe.

The world was sideways and the afterimages of flying spells were seared into his eyes and blood had splattered his face, he could taste it—

He couldn't breathe.

He was being eaten alive, he was so cold and—

Another spider careened by, missing its legs. A spray of earth and dirt showered him with little pinpricks of pain on top of pain like acid slowly, slowly gnawing at him.

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't even scream.

He was going to die; he was going to dissolve from the agony ripping into every part of him, from the ice, from the bloody _suffocation because he couldn't—_

Charlie's eyes flew open and he gasped in air so harshly he inhaled his own spit and had to struggle against the ensuing coughing fit. It was pitch dark in his room and Percy was snoring quietly in Bill's bed.

_Thank Merlin_, Charlie thought, and then his brain seemed to break and repeat the word _thank _over and over again.

He was shaking.

He wasn't sure why.

His stomach felt as though it was being attacked by a horde of butterflies, or as though he'd just fallen off his broom from too high up.

He though he might throw up.

_Thank, thank, thank, _his brain murmured.

Charlie shuddered on his bed and curled up tightly under his blankets, jaw clenched so hard he could hear his teeth creak. His breaths were coming too fast in and out of his nose.

_Thank, thank, thankthankthank,_ his brain said.

He couldn't breathe. His mind wouldn't shut up. Percy was stirring, his snores cutting off and Charlie could not stop shaking.

"Charlie?"

_Thankthankthankthank—_

"Lumos."

He squeezed his eyes shut against the glare and tried to breathe properly.

_THANKTHANKTHANK—_

A hand landed on his shoulder and the scream almost escaped. He lashed out, and there was a crash. The light went out.

"Ow…Charlie!"

He was gasping now, sitting up and bent nearly double, his hands clutching at his hair, trying to _stop bloody shaking for Merlin's sake_, and Percy probably thought he was going mental, bloody hell he just punched his little brother for _touching him_, he looked utterly ridiculous, what if Percy woke up Mum—

"Charlie I—I'm going to get Mum. Just…just breathe—"

There was a clatter, the whine of the door opening, the thunder of footsteps, Charlie could hear his heart pounding against his ribcage, oh God he was having some sort of fit, he needed to calm the down—_THANK—_SHUT UP!

He moaned and shuddered and tried to breathe properly and stop shaking; it felt like his bones were shattering into a million little pieces like—

"Charlie?"

It was Mum, oh Merlin, _Mum_.

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" No he bloody wasn't and didn't sound like it, he was practically bawling, practically screaming.

"I'm here, Charlie, love. I'm right here."

A warm hand tentatively slid along his back and because it was his Mum Charlie did his best to hold very, very still and not scream or cry or fall apart like a window a bludger had hurtled through.

The soft warmth of his mother pressed to his side. "Breathe with me," she said, and he tried his best to match her slow, even breaths. It felt like a long time before he was finally, blissfully still, and his heart was slow, and his brain had stopped acting as though it had taken too much pepper-up.

He unclenched his hands, wincing as his head began to pound. Mum was rubbing at his back in small, soothing circles and breathing loudly, steadily.

Ashamed of falling apart so ridiculously because of a nightmare, he turned away to lie facing the window and pulled the covers up to his chin, eyes resolutely closed.

"Alright?" Mum asked.

He nodded jerkily. Then, unsure if she knew, he added, "Yeah."

The hand slowly slid away, and Mum leaned over and smoothed his curly hair from his face, before the creaking floorboards told him she was leaving. A small part of him, a part of him that would forever be a six year old boy scared of the dark because it had taken his uncles away, wanted to ask her to stay. It was that same part of him that made him keep quiet.

* * *

In the light of day, Charlie felt absolutely ridiculous for whatever had happened the night before, and was determined to pretend that it never did happen. Determined, that is, until breakfast in a furtively quiet kitchen, when the fireplace burst into green flames, and out of it stepped Bulstrode.

"Good morning," she said with a stately nod of her head.

Charlie scowled into his oatmeal and shoved the bowl away.

"Charlie—," his Mum began.

Charlie ignored her, savagely gripped his crutches and left the house.

It was a sunny day, the reporters were still gathered beyond the wards that made the Burrow invisible to them, and he headed straight for them. Bulstrode apparated not two feet in front of him and simply _looked_ at him.

He stopped.

"You suffered an anxiety attack last night, Weasely, and your mother was understandably frightened and alerted me by owl the moment she woke. Which was at _dawn_. So if you don't mind, you'll kindly stop your silly tantrums and grant me your fullest attention. Otherwise I will be forced to hex you into submission."

"You wouldn't." He said mulishly.

"I've gotten very little sleep," she archly, "I absolutely would."

Charlie clenched his jaw and looked back at the Burrow. The curtains of the kitchen windows promptly swung closed, but not before he glimpsed the entire family, plus Harry and Hermione, looking after them curiously.

He turned back to Bulstrode, who was smiling tightly. The circles under her eyes hadn't abated since yesterday.

"Talk," she told him, "What prompted it?"

With a resigned sigh, Charlie sunk down to the grass. After a moment, Bulstrode followed.

"Nightmare," he bit out, "Of the battle."

"Trauma induced anxiety attacks are fairly common in wizards and witches who have gone through life-threatening situations," Bulstrode told him, "Is this the first time?"

He nodded.

"There's not much to do about it," she said. He glanced at her; she was tugging at the hem of her long-sleeved robes. "Putting you on Dreamless Sleep is inadvisable; you have a high propensity for becoming addicted, due to your leg."

He grimaced. Wonderful…

"Exercise is one option. You're a fairly active person."

"Was," he corrected.

In a shocking display of unladylike decorum, Bulstrode snorted. "Don't be ridiculous, you've lost a leg, not your ability to coordinate the rest of your body. Once you get the prosthetic you'll be as good as new. In any case, you need to stop brooding, it's not doing you any good."

Charlie couldn't help but feel as though she was being insensitive, and he'd opened his mouth to tell her so before sense caught up with him. For the past week, everyone but Bulstrode had been treating him like glass, and it had been driving him mad. Why would he complain now that someone was finally treating him as though he were not, in fact, an invalid.

Bulstrode noticed his gaping mouth, of course, and rolled her eyes. She apparently thought so little of him that she wasn't acting so damn formal any longer. "It's time to get your life in order Weasely. Tell me, where were you working before the war?"

"In Romania," he sighed, and the flickers of hope that he could be normal again were extinguished with that one word.

"Oh?" Bulstrode arched a brow, a flicker of curiosity sparking in her dark eyes, "Doing what?"

"Studying dragons. I was in charge of watching over their broods."

Bulstrode was now looking at him with the strangest expression on her face; and it took him a while to figure it out. It looked like envy, and the idea that this pureblooded witch could be envious of _him_ was shocking.

"But that's _fascinating,_" she breathed, "I imagine that you travelled everywhere and—" She cut herself off. "Anyway, are you going back?"

Feeling vaguely disappointed, (in what he had no idea), he shrugged. "Dunno if they'd take me back. I'd be a…liability, around the dragons. I've got to be quick on my feet, and ready at the drop of a hat."

"I don't see why having a prosthetic would limit you at all!" she exclaimed, her face suddenly fierce. "I swear to Morgana herself, Weasely, if you sit there like a wart on hag and continue being _sullen_ I'm going to hex you to Avalon and back."

Taken aback by her sudden and unprecedented ferocity, he simply blinked and found himself saying, quite by accident, "Alright."

Bulstrode sat back. "Good, then."

There was an awkward silence and Charlie shivered a little, aware that he was still in pajamas and that clouds were rapidly converging on the sun. Bulstrode seemed caught up in her own thoughts, and he didn't know exactly where to go from here.

For a moment, he thought that he could almost like Bulstrode. It was a strange thought. Sure, in Romania he'd had to deal with all sorts, and properly too unless they wanted to be burnt to cinders, but he mostly hung out with the cheery, uninhibited crowd, which Bulstrode was...not.

"Are you getting the prosthetic, then?" Bulstrode asked him, pulling him from his reverie.

"I…don't know yet," Charlie said guiltily. He then berated himself for feeling guilty, he didn't owe Bulstrode or anything and…well, the Weasely's couldn't afford it.

"What, is the Boy Savior not about to help you out?" Bulstrode drawled, and he automatically bristled.

"I'm not about to ask for charity from a seventeen year old," he snapped, "And don't talk about Harry like that."

"Well, I think you're being stupid. Potter's got enough clout that he could walk into any store in Diagon Alley and people would be dribbling over themselves to give him anything he wanted, such as a prosthetic to help out the brother of his friend."

Charlie got ungracefully to his feet and glared down at Bulstrode mutely, suddenly so outraged he couldn't think up a response.

"Slytherins know an opportunity when they see one, and Potter's such a noble boy he wouldn't even think to ask for anything in return. Honestly, I don't know why I bother," Bulstrode continuued, and stood, dusting off her robes. "You're appointment's over, I'm leaving."

She strode past, and he lunged and grabbed her arm, his crutch falling to the ground.

She looked up at him with narrowed slits for eyes. "Let. Go."

He didn't, only tightened his grip, glad he'd taken hold of her wand arm.

* * *

Jenna thought that if she hadn't been so stupid as to leave her wand in her pocket, she might have hexed Weasely so badly that he might as well had the wasting curse still on him. His grip was strong, likely to leave bruises, and he loomed over her, face red with fury, blue eyes fairly sparking.

"You've got no right talking about him like that," he said, voice low and heated, "He's only a kid. I won't take advantage of his fame or clout or whatever it is. He's not an opportunity, he's a person."

He didn't understand. He truly didn't. What she would have done to have been on the right side, the winning side. She would've groveled at Potter's feet if she thought he'd give her the time of day, if she thought he'd help her save her home and get the press away from her and her friends, to get Millie from being dragged to court because of Father, to get her Mother to stop working herself to the bone with solicitors so that they could keep their belongings.

She'd have made Potter declare to the entire Wizarding World that the principle 'innocent until proven guilty' should be adhered to, that Slytherin didn't mean evil, that it wasn't fair to attack her when she was just trying to save people's lives and stay invisible. Horrifyingly, she could feel the tingle in her nose that meant she was about to cry. With a strangled growl, she stomped on Weasely's foot and pulled herself free, ignoring his curse as he collapsed to the ground.

He glared murderously up at her.

Oh, she wanted to rip him apart with her bare hands for being so damned _proud, _and the words were falling out of her mouth before she could stop them. "I'm _sick_ of people with morals who don't do anything with their power! For all that your side spouted about _decency_ and _standards_ for all, you've done a fat lot for anyone!"

"We fought a bloody war against a raging lunatic and his raging, murderous sociopaths!" Weasely bellowed.

"So bloody what!" she screamed back, "The war's over, you've won, now what? Are you all just going to hide in your homes and grieve and mope and do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING? Everyone's lost something, Weasely, some more than others, and nothing's being done to change the _bloody status quo your side purportedly hated_. The end of the war was supposed to mean that things _changed_."

Silence rang, birds chirped, and behind them was a cough.

Bulstrode spun to see that the Weasely matriarch, the bespectacled Weasely and his sister, and the golden trio looking at them with varying looks of anger and confusion and alarm.

Flushing, she shoved past them, into their house, and directly for the floo. She spat out the address home and disappeared in a whirl of emerald fire.

* * *

_**A/N:** So...yeah. This chapter happened and I don't like it. Erm..._


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